


Lemmings

by Requiem (Hanahaki_Blood)



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, God help anyone who disrespects the Queen, Joker (DCU) Has Issues, Joker (DCU) Played by Jared Leto, Joker loves Harley, POV Joker (DCU), Possessive Joker (DCU), Protective joker, Valentine's Day, and he hates the fact, as much as he can love still, but we know that, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25646239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanahaki_Blood/pseuds/Requiem
Summary: The stain on the left side of her face was the colour of pressed lilies. Plum-sized. It lay a finger's breadth below the cheekbone, adorning her skin like old make-up. Joker had seen any form of bruising too often and had done it himself to be stupid enough to even consider that option. The stain was real, dark, probably hours old. And it was not of his doing.
Relationships: Harley Quinn/The Joker, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	Lemmings

**Author's Note:**

> To make this clear: This is my own story. If you have seen the German version of this story, yes, this is my own work too – this here is the translation of it also created and written by myself. Since I like to keep my stories of different languages strictly separated I didn't think I'd need to mention it. Duh.

It was rare for Joker to sleep through the night.

Usually, he slept three, four hours at most when exhaustion took over. After that, something – an irritated nerve, an overstretched muscle cord, the desire to blast a bullet into the ceiling – burst through his veins, quickened his pulse, had the blood run hot. He awoke with a start – he couldn't fall asleep again. He could have blamed the acid bath had he cared. He didn't. He cared very little as long as it didn't involve a punchline or a man-sized bat. So three, four hours tops. That was his mantra to go with.

His pounding skull greeted him with complete emptiness. Little by little, it did fill with thoughts, partial memories talking him into ragged cascades merely to leave him more morbid than before. One hand on his bare chest, the other stretched out beside him, he looked into black, moth-eaten, consoling nothing. The inkling of the dream he had already forgotten about seeped tears into his eyes that glued his eyelashes together, adamant on putting him back to rest. He grunted his reluctance into the silence of the bedroom.

The night of February 14th had been eaten away by street lights and spectacle, had burned his skin and ripped the purple off his leather jacket; that much Joker still knew. He did not remember details, only sounds and their echoes. Also shots, explosions, the beautiful clink of glass. Harley’s and his laughter. The screams that swelled up underneath. The joy of being forgiven. Hearts on sticks in the shops and sweets that give caries a boost. He turned his head away, muttering bits of sentences he didn't quite understand himself. Rolling on his side, he wrapped his arms around his upper body without realizing.

Four months had gone by and she still wasn’t fed up with him. Four months of burglary, murder, torture and car chases, a ride through the love tunnel in the amusement park stuck in between, figures in disguise at the carnival and a masked ball in the gutter. He had never fancied himself as a man able being in a relationship before and all the while it felt like a pair of trousers that wouldn’t fit him or a shoe that was too big no matter what size he got. What _she_ got for him.

Back then, when he gave her the choice, he had basically felt as clueless as he did now, the crucial difference being that her offer and his pumped-up adrenaline made him frantic in his decision making – as well as, perhaps, the fact that she held a pistol between his eyes just after she had shot the fatso spitting his last complain along with his blood.

What was he thinking? Nothing, of course. But Harley was not _nothing_. No human being could be _nothing_ , even in death the body remained and had to be disposed of. Harley would certainly have made an attractive corpse should fate play its part one day, but it was more than that. And it was still there. Whatever mixed feelings he festered about their current arrangement, he didn't plan to dispose of her. He hadn't taken care of her enough for that. Yet.

The coolness of an early afternoon breeze blew across his shaved brow and he struggled to get out of bed to close the window with a curse. Anger and the everyday nausea of morning hangover poured over him like a kettle of boiling oil and he turned around, grateful for being angry. Too often, he did not know how else to feel. Anger was something he knew, and it was easier for him to act out on it than write a fucking poem for starters.

"Harley, how many times have I told you –“

His words broke off soon as he turned around to scan the semi-darkness and spot the missing curves of a second body in the sheets. He hesitated. Then, he groped for the cord and pulled the blind up. A glaring cold sun penetrated the silence of the sleeping chamber with stark yellow, soaking every spot of grey in light.

The right side of the bed lay untouched before his eyes.

He faltered. The breeze of day flowed unhindered along his skin, unacknowledged. This was a mistake in the routine. Harley never left the bed before he got up himself. She always stayed by his side, watching him, nestled on his chest or tucked behind his back, locating his pulse with her fingertips and murmuring most silly caresses into his neck. It annoyed Joker to no ends, especially when yesterday’s raid had gone wrong and she had the nerve to demand one of her ridiculous flirtations after this disaster.

Joker hated when something didn't go according to plan. He didn't care much for control and orderly procedures as they destroyed any possibility of an unexpected punchline in his game, but success, the rage of the aging bat and the preservation of the loot remained constants he reluctantly tended to. Not being able to shout at or look at his beloved when he wanted to was definitely one of these constants. As far as he was concerned, he did not need more.

"Harley?" he asked aloud. No answer. Of course not. He returned to the bed, palm checking the mattress. Smooth, not a single crease. He grabbed her pillow and buried his nose deep in the fabric, breathing in. The scent of her fruity, tart perfume emanated in stale waves. He had a faint suspicion that she hadn't slept here at all last night. Frustrated, he threw the pillow back into place and left the room barefoot.

He crossed the dullish brown corridor, grumbling about which rooms were worth searching and which were too dilapidated to take a step in. Harley was crazy, but putting an end to herself by being crushed by rubble, ashes and moldy wood – and for no good reason, too – was not her style.

The hideout they had chosen this time was a disused factory Roman Sionis had once occupied and from which he had conducted most of his business from. He had to close Janusch or Janus – or whatever the company was called – after their stock prices headed south and from there probably onto the steel plate of some bunker underground. Bruce Wayne, the mollycoddle of high society who would be famous all his life for being an orphan, had bought the company and helped it to rebuild, but moved production to the other side of town in the process. Since no one felt responsible for the abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the Diamond District, Joker, free as he was, had made them his own. Since then, he had been storing some of his weapon depots in the smaller facilities while operating from the main building himself. The building manifested as a smoke-grey box with three floors, proud and steadfast in its shabby ugliness, holding out against all the cranes and wrecking balls that dare coming close. Harley had jumped happily into his arms at the sight of it and immediately set about decorating the bowels of the building, which had not been spared from vermin, weather, and water stains, to provide a decent home for her lover.

Joker couldn't care less what she called it – a dump was a dump was a dump.Although he admitted the dreary depth found in The Scream painted by Munch fitted perfectly into the equally dreary corridor he was heading down. Of course, he wouldn't say that to her face. She would see it as an incentive to hang scented trees in the toilet or embroider hearts on the ghastly pot holders she had once taken from a restaurant kitchen without explanation and never used but to throw them at him during a fight. Aesthetics, an eye for detail and all that brain-puréed nonsense – Joker was satisfied with a lipstick and some powder to present himself ready for a heist.

His first detour led to the bathroom which housed two washbasins, a bathtub with gold-framed crow's feet and a shower head above. The trickling from the latter shed a lonely echo in the small room; water bursting on ceramics. For an instant, Joker wondered where the rubber duck lay he had washed black with a felt-tip pen and scribbled a pair of fangs on its beak, but forgot it again as soon as he looked in the mirror above the washstand. Someone had painted a smiley face on it with purple lipstick. A single tear ran from its left eye, just above the shaky arch of the dimple. He tilted his head, reached and ran his finger over the cold, smooth surface. The paint smeared across both the glass and his skin. He put his fingers in front of his eyes and looked at the smudge. Fresh still. He turned on his heel and left the room.

He was about to head towards the main hall when he heard it rattle nearby. Joker inclined his head **.** There was no doubt in his mind that it was coming from the kitchen. At the same time, he cursed himself for not having brought a pistol with him. He might have had some use for it, but so be it. To face death unprepared – wasn't that the spice of life? With twitching lips he set off, his hands buried in the pockets of his sweatpants.

The door was ajar with the sun throwing a milky shimmer through the cuboid glass plates, dipping the furniture behind it in blurred, brownish shadows. Normally he would have kicked it in so that the glass clashed in invitation. This time, he pushed it inwards with a nudge of his toe and entered quietly.

He saw her standing in the light, her back turned. She was wearing the shirt and shorts from last night. Pink flip-flops encased feet balancing on tiled floor. She was busy in front of the stove, taking two plates from the shelf while she reached for a spatula. The sizzling smell of bacon invaded his nose. Before he opened his mouth, she bent over the steaming pan and brushed a few strands behind her ear that had come loose from the badly wrapped bun. He slowed his step, paused. Stared.

The stain on the left side of her face was the colour of pressed lilies. Plum-sized. It lay a finger’s breadth below the cheekbone, adorning her skin like old make-up. Joker had seen any form of bruising too often and had done it himself to be stupid enough to even consider that option. The stain was real, dark, probably hours old. And it was not of his doing.

The shock of discovery came as the biggest surprise to him. It was like a bite to his loins, followed by an unpleasant afterburn deep in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t remember feeling anything like that lately. His fists clenched in his pockets, bulging out the fabric.

"Pumpkin," he called into the void, his tone a bossy purr. He hadn’t used the nickname for several days, he noticed. Crumbs of dust scratched the inside of his throat as he swallowed.

She whirled around. The corners of her mouth bent to the base of her cheekbones. He looked at her bright eyes of frostbitten blue, her white teeth framed by cherry red dabbed lips. The stain stretched, resembling more than ever the shadow of a scar. Joker's lips, which had wanted to curl despite the sight, for the sake of show, pressed into a colorless line. Well, it was too early for a performance up to his standards anyway.

"Puddin! Slept well?" The good mood rose around her like a lure for bees. He didn't bat an eyelash. Even a stranger would've understood it to be fake. Besides, she didn't run straight to him to wrap herself around his neck. She would do that every. Damn. Time. And like every. Damn. Time. He would have hated it. Would hve inhaled her scent, the ingredients of her shampoo mixed in her hair.

"Acceptable," he replied succinctly. He raised what had once been a fairly neat brow. "You?" She opened her mouth, but was distracted by a hiss of steam. The bacon burned. She lifted the pan with haste pouring two portions onto the plates.

"Oh, I wasn't tired. I was working out!“ Joker frowned.

" _Working out_." He went to the table in the middle of the room and dragged a chair up, sat down. Harley took this as a sign to turn her back again and crack two eggs. Supporting one elbow on the tabletop and holding his chin in the hollow hollow of his hand, he watched her every move with the languid interest of a resting predator. His gaze stapled to the back of her head. The bun swayed merrily back and forth, like the tail of a cat. The picture took him back to asylum times; the first months of their... relationship. Harleen had been her name then, and the glasses she wore were the most horrible model that ever had to park on a nose. But she had a fine nose for that, in more ways than one. None of those snub noses that sold in the commercials; a pure, straight one that matched the delicate cheekbones looking paler than usual without the rouge.

That morning she had taken off her mask and left the old one on. Changing one mask for the next seemed to be a terribly logical way of doing things these days. After all, the people up his business did nothing else so far.

Joker shook his head inwardly. No. The glasses hadn't been ghastly. Only what they portrayed had been so. What they chose to hide. He didn't like hide-and-seek games when he was the one that had to go looking. Certainly earned him few to none points on the playground - if he could have said of himself to ever have been on a playground. He would have had to remember his childhood and, to be honest, he was happy to deny having ever had that, too. Not the Joker. The Joker wasn't born - he was _made_. The way he had made _her._ Even though this product cost him some nerves he would otherwise have saved for the Bat it was _still_ **his**. And what belonged to him, he very reluctantly gave away.

"Could you explain something to me?“ He complimented himself on how calmly he acted until now. The spatula scratched into grey painted stainless steel.

"What is it, Mistah J?"

„Have you gone among the Smurfs?“ She looked over his shoulder from eyes that were far too blue, definitely too innocent. He held contact without blinking.

Seconds went by. The yolk gained substance. She swallowed. He watched the bounce in her throat. Of course she knew. She had made little effort to conceal it, so why bother? Either that, or she had run out of concealer and decided to walk into the lion's open maw carrying scrambled eggs for defence. Or the lion's maw into her, whichever you prefer. Hah. That's what brought him to the circus. He had no idea how long he'd avoided the glittering arena there, but it felt like years. One of his scouts had told him that Zambiani’s been town for a week now. Maybe they should pay him a visit tomorrow and present their own program... rarely did you get the chance to wear a tuxedo without embarrassing yourself like a certain penguin. And hadn't Harley told him how much she used to love gymnastics? Fine, she could enjoy the trapeze and leave him alone with his plan.

"I fell down, Mistah J." Her voice shot like a spear through his cotton wool stuffed brain. Like in their sessions at that time she had a captivating manner that prevented her from being ignored. Or maybe that only worked in his case.

"On your face?" he countered coldly. As if by command, a hollow giggle sounded on her side. It made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. Not even police sirens could squeeze that reaction out of him.

"Y-Yes. Sounds stupid, I know, but I was drunk. That's what happened.“

"So you've been working out drunk, huh?"

She winced. Harley was a passable actress when it mattered; just not when it came to him. With him, she was miserable. He liked that about her.

"I... I thought it was a good idea," she said. This time, she avoided looking at him deliberately.

„You thought so...“ Bored, his eyes glided over the decor that Harley had made God knows when. A reddish-golden tablecloth with ornaments and lace edgeslay on the wood as a cotton rhombus, a long-necked vase in its middle in which a bouquet of red roses eked out its existence. On his right stood a bottle of champagne and two wine glasses. Alcohol for breakfast? Unorthodox. Not that he minded. He also preferred to eat his cereal at 2 am.

It was the occasion that didn't appeal to him. Valentine's Day. The word alone meant poison on his tongue. He couldn't even say why, had never paid enough attention to that day to hate it. Until she came along and had to give it a _meaning_. Just like she gave meaning to that ugly bruise because it blossomed on _her_ cheek. Because it wasn't _his_ fist that had put it there. In the old days, he wouldn't have spent five minutes with such frills; he would have emptied his gun, put one of the bullets back and let Russian Roulette run its course. Although he had to admit that he hadn't had to worry about a Harley either in the past – except for the one that was standing in the garage and probably needed an oil change. The latter didn't think much of chocolates and sugar hearts, just like he did.

His attention crawled back to the vase and the flowers. The bouquet was nearly overflowing, the stems wrapped around each other in misery and rubbed their thorns together because of the sparse space. There were too many of them – it was a miracle how she had managed to stuff each one into the small round opening somehow without any of the flower heads threatening to bend to the side. Given its ridiculous splendour, it reminded him of a rust-coloured Afro which rose like a soldier using a buckload of hairspray. Which in turn forced him to rememger the image of one of these poorly worked clown wigs, ones the circus tents still offered in every wardrobe. The masses swallowed the costume choice willingly because they didn't know any other way; didn't _want to know_ any other way. Although he appreciated the classics and the old-fashioned slapsticks, he hated tired concepts that made you stop thinking. No joke should fall victim to its own routine. Then it was no longer funny – then it was dead.

Maybe that's why he had allowed Harley to stay at his side. She was as far away from routine as one could possibly be. Fired up, a quick tongue, a hard jab. Plus she was young, fresh meat to play with and test out as you pleased. A source of inspiration for his next score and hundreds more to come.

He admitted that the constant chase and snap with bats had left him more exhausted than satisfied lately. It had matured, hated and humiliated, into the routine that he so feared and was disgusted by. The adrenaline rush had eased to a trot when they met. He had heard the melodies his fist composed on his body too often for him not to count the beat in mind, cracking and tearing. Moreover, the bat was too often in Metropolis with Superdipshit in his skin-tight blue suspenders for his taste. Joker had never liked playing second fiddle to anyone; he was a first-class criminal. He needed a certain _amount_ of attention. And if he didn't get it from his self-proclaimed arch-enemy, he would chase the city till he found what he was looking for. This wandering had ended (once again) in Arkham, had ended in his filthy, gray cell with the unwelcome iron door, had ended in ~~Harleen Quinzel's~~ Harley Quinn's beguilingly soft and corruptible lap. Only then he did stop looking. And made plans to break out of the prison he had built for himself.

„Little dove.“He let his index finger run over the velvet membrane of one of the petals. They soon bored him however, so he slid down to marsh green leaves, then to the thorns. Sharp, but not sharp enough. Disappointing. Next came the vase, knowing that his fingerprints would be stuck on its surface. He didn't often leave marks with his bare hand, preferring to wear his gloves while torturing. He liked the contrast of blood on the leather when he gently embraced the intricately winding neck of the victim. It was all arranged with love. She must have searched forever to find a vase she thought he might like. He closed his eyes. "My darling, my jewel, the apple of my eye – you know how I hate lies?" A smile vibrated in Harley's voice.

"Yes, Mistah J, I -"

The vase crashed against the kitchen wall with a bang and missed her by a hair's breadth. Harley cried out and held her arms protectively in front of her upper body, accompanied by shards of glass that were scattered over the boiling hotplate and the kitchen counter. Joker watched the scene with a motionless expression. Only the fire in his eyes betrayed him.

"Then why do you do it?" In his mind, he roared the words so that they punctured her eardrum as well as his. In reality, he breathed them out with a touch of cheerfulness that mocked all malice.

Harley stared at him. Her eyes were wide open, two clear mirrors of shock. She had suffered no injuries, not a single stupid scratch and could hardly believe it herself. Neither did Joker. He had hoped for at least a few measly cuts – at least that's what he thought. She blinked. Every color and farce had disappeared from her face.

The silence resided like a soaked sponge between them and it pissed Joker off. He hadn't taken her along to keep quiet. She was his private audience when no one was looking. With her he rehearsed his number, in front of her he completed these rehearsals and covered up the slip-ups. She was the first and the last to attend the show which was his life. He hadn't forced her; he had asked her. And she had answered with a _Yes_ , naive child that she was.

Had he been able to see the situation from the point of view kept by an outside lunatic, he would have been holding his stomach in laughter. Unbelievable, really, how far he had let it come already. If he didn’t known better, he would have called Batman up to be readmitted to Arkham. But he was not keen on meeting a second Quinzel. That, surely, would’ve killed him at last.

Her lips had begun to tremble, made him think of rubies and knife edges. He had gotten used to them: the feeling when they lay on top of his, moving. He carried her taste on his tongue just like his skin wore all those numerous tattoos. He tasted her even now, more intense than ever although she was metres away from him, standing on shaky legs with a shaky heart. And he could not decide whether to swallow her or spit.

"I-"

„I - I - I - I,“ he monkeyed with the push of a button. Interrupt them if you can't win the argument, that was the motto. He smiled. Then his mouth sagged against his will, too weak to hold it up. "Can't you do better than that? As a doctor, your vocabulary was much shrewder than that.“ He bent forward, burying his head in his hands, fingertips pressed against his temples. They throbbed. Quietly. "This hurts me deeply, Harleen. Very, _very_ deeply. After all I've done for you. What we've been through!" He did not prevent his voice from breaking in the end. Though it was for dramatic effect, he found his behaviour fundamentally absurd. He didn't understand himself – but hey, when did he ever? And when should he give a damn?

Again it was silence that followed. The miserable calm before the storm. A small, feminine gasp for breath.

One heartbeat later she was kneeling beside his chair, pleadingly wedging her bordeaux-painted nails into his bare leg.

"I'm sorry, Mistah J! I'm so sorry!" He heard her sob into his ear, the sound faltering and jerky, a whimper split into grief and spit. She had also sobbed when she followed him on her motorcycle and stood in front of him on the street. Staring at him with those big, stupid puppy eyes and screaming at him as tears ran down her face. He wouldn't look at her. Making little girls and grown men cry – he had always been good at that, ever since he could remember. It wasn't too much, but what was missing, he sewed together as needed. Before Harley, he had never wanted for anything. In his defense, he had never needed her either. Until she came along and demanded to stay.

His slap followed as spontaneously and unexpectedly as the vase. This time he hit his target. The echo clapped across the room and against the quiet disgust that was germinating inside him. Nevertheless, he liked the contrast left by his rose-red fingerprints next to the hematoma.

She said nothing. Didn't scream, didn't open her mouth to insult him. She touched her cheek as if in trance, her eyes wide and bright. He positioned two fingers under her chin and lifted it. Their eyes met.

"Never lie to me again," he said softly. She blinked. Nodded slowly. He smiled.

He pushed the chair back a little, bent down and pulled her onto his lap. With one arm around her waist, he turned her jaw sideways, driving her hand away with his. "Good. Now let me look at you."

She let him look at her. Silent as a statue she sat, tears glistening on the tips of her eyelashes, her hands flat on her lap. He recognized the accelerated pulse of her carotid artery and the unspoken question of touching him. She was warm, boiling, really. He ignored both.

"Beer bottle. Not splintered," he murmured monotonously, as if he were to autopsy a corpse. "Be a good girl and tell me who did this."

"I don't know." She hesitated. Licked her lips. "Really. I was at the bar and everything was spinning and... and a guy stood next to me and –“

Joker tapped her throbbing cheek in warning, stopping her mid-sentence.

"Did he buy you a drink?" In response, shame and anger reflected in her darkly colored pupils. He did not hold it against her; neither of them were meant for him.

"I didn’t pay attention. I'm sorry, Puddin, I'm so sorry-"

"Shh." He didn't have time for apologetic babble. The method of mixing tasteless drugs into drinks had become old hat and could be carried out by any idiot available, it didn't need any tact or skill. A trait that was missing from 98 percent of his henchmen, arbitrary cannon fodder and the fan chorus they were which made the search for the guilty party all the more difficult. There was no question that he would find him; he just didn't like to waste a whole day on the task. Especially not when this generous insect had taken further trouble with Harley and dared to lull himself into safety for the next few hours. His eyes narrowed to slits. He grabbed her tighter, pressed his bitten nails into the thin fabric of her shirt. Her scent caught up with him, sweet perfume and the fresh peach of her shampoo. She froze under his grip, but then relaxed immediately as he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled.

"Did he do anything else?" She leaned against him. He thought about what a face she would have made if he had pushed her away at that moment. A howler, for sure. He didn't do it.

"...No. He didn't - I'd know if he had,“ She faltered, the words like mortar between her teeth. His fingers itched to shake them out of her. Instead, he waited. „I’m not hurt like that.“ She said it softly, almost gently. She might as well have shouted it in his ear, he would have sported the same reaction which was none.

Truth be told, he didn't know how to react or what would have been the right thing to say. He didn't even know whether he felt satisfaction or hate in this moment.

Then came the silence. And with it, all that was hanging unspoken between them and his sluggish, hungry pulse.

"You knew what you were getting yourself into when you jumped," he whispered. His breath blew warm over her meanwhile wet cheek. He tasted salt on his tongue, the sour sweetness of her. She sniffed. Whether it was out of relief or because she became aware of the enormous weight that his question and her answer contained, he could not say for sure. In fact, he had no need for it. The possibility alone was... unpleasant enough.

"Yes, Puddin," she said. Sniffle sniffle. Her ridiculous nickname for him. How did she come up with it, anyway? And when did he get used to it? When did his head automatically start snapping in her direction whenever she called it out? His throat was like the Sahara on a spring morning.

"But **this** “, He mockingly caressed the nasty color melange that disfigured her, the sole blemish on her otherwise flawless skin, with an equally flawless body in his hands, combining both the characteristics of porcelain and granite. She always had, the first time he saw her. Only sometimes she forgot, like today, even though he did everything he could to make her remember it. That she finally understood what she was capable of when the occasion demanded it. Otherwise, she could not survive by his side. Not for long. Until then, she had to learn to avoid incidents like this.

"This," he repeated sternly, before his thoughts swallowed him whole, "should no part of it. This is not kindergarten. It’s disappointing that my boys are not brought up as well as I thought. I nurtured and cared for them, and what do they do instead? As soon as I walk out the door, they jump my girl.“ Actually, Harley should have been happy with the expression _my girl_. Instead, she let her head hang low.

"They don't accept me," she said quietly. More than ever, her demeanor imitated a child that had been dragged out of the car and left in the field with no explanation. Soothingly, he wandered with his thumb over her plump lower lip. Somewhere in the back of his head there was still the resentment that she had tried to trick him. But she had got her punishment already; and she had only stopped crying a few seconds ago. So he swallowed what was left of the rage and did what he considered one of his best and most useful talents; he lied.

"Oh, yes; yes, they will, dear. They are dogs, they just have to get used to their mistress." He did not mention that he also still had to get used to her, just in case. His eyes narrowed. "But first they must learn what it means when their master becomes angry." The abrupt tilt of his tone peaked her attention. Confused, she raised her brows.

"Don't they already know that?" Her question actually sounded innocent. Joker patted her back with a dull smile.

"It seems they've forgotten. We'll remind them later. First... we eat." He nodded at the stove and the fiery pile of ashes that was still crackling in the pan. Right next to it lay one of the roses, the flower head sadly hanging over the edge of the counter, leaves torn. He frowned. „Okay, the eggs kinda made an _egg-sit_ there **.“**

That word-play was terrible. Terrible and not remotely in the stylistic range of what he usually chose to be associated wth. Harley laughed till she cried a second time. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he let her. Watched her face glow, her eyes two fixed points that caught the light and threw it back twice, listened to her voice catapulting itself to hysterical heights. The laughter was real. She was real. Which was a good and bad thing in one.

 _I'm not going to hurt you_ she said at the time, then took his gun and shot the fat guy without batting an eyelid. And now it was Valentine's Day and she had a black eye plus the shading his own slap had added. Hurt her and him. The irony was practically palpable.

But, somehow, he didn't like to laugh at it. He didn't find it as funny as he was supposed to.

"I'll make new ones. Just a moment." Her kiss pressed to his cheek made him look up. He watched her slip from his knees and stand up. His hand grabbed her wrist in reflex – it _was_ nothing but a reflex, he didn't want to accept anything else.

Not firmly, however, not violently as he usually liked to do. Rather the kind a child had in him when he clung to his mother's blouse sleeve. Joker had no memory of his mother. She was a concept that bobbled along the side of the road somewhere in the distance and gave no other sign of life. Only sometimes, in his dreams, a coarse, masculine, brawny figure would appear in her place, shouting words at him he didn't understand. It would rush towards him, throw him to the ground and raise its fist _because_ he didn't understand them. At least he believed that. Anyway.

She stopped. Tilted her pretty skull. So thoughtful. So graceful. So longing for every word. How could he ever be angry with her? How could he not?

He pulled out the only rose he had spared when he threw the vase from under the table and twirled it between his fingers. Her eyes caught on it.

"You remind me of a rose, you know that? A delicate plant, intense in its fragility. Proud, _with the right_ to be proud. Very few can say that about themselves." He offered it without taking his eyes off her. She tore it from his hand. Her own trembled as she held it in front of her nose and took a deep breath. Her eyelids dropped to half-mast as she did so. "Be this rose, but remember thy thorns," Joker continued. He wagged his index finger. "Use it before they cut it off. Do. You. Understand?"

Both knew who _they_ were. They had often talked about _them_. The world, the doctors, the heroes – all just masks covering the same cowardly face for it couldn't stand sunlight on its bare skin. If it had, it would have burned and screamed like a guiltless woman at the stake. Flesh was good fuel – Joker could speak from experience.

"Yes, Mistah J," Harley said eagerly, still so enraptured by the gesture that she

would have said yes to everything. Then, she smiled. „And Happy Valentine's Day." His eyes rolled.

"For all I care," he murmured, surrendering to his fate. For now. "Now go. I'm hungry."

* * *

Four hours later, as the sky fell into a lake of purple blood and dispelled the last shreds of clouds on the horizon, the sun forced itself below the border and its light left the ground.

Joker stood in the largest warehouse the building had to offer, piquing the collar of his coat as he looked at himself in a long mirror. One of his henchmen held it up to him, his focus strictly on the ground. He did not want to risk laying his eyes on the prince of crime to then be accused of judging his appearance with a derogatory expression. It would by no means be the first time that Joker pulled out a gun on the basis of such trifles: as soon as he realized the joke of a death, even the strongest argument remained futile.

The rest of the pack stood in a semicircle around her, enjoying a little distance. Most of them wore sour faces and stunted mouths. They had actually hoped for a break after yesterday's action. Joker pretended not to see any of this.

Johnny was the only one standing near him, watching the men in silence. His sunglasses allowed no speculation about what he thought. The machine gun over his shoulder, however, definitely meant no pleasant consequences for those who stepped out of line.

After his rings were put on and his sleeves wrinkle-free, Joker stood up to full height and reigned his sharp, blue eyes over each potential perpetrator. None of them seemed to carry any particular guilt on their consciences. Although, if they still had a working conscience, he certainly would not have hired them. He didn't need reluctant fingers on the trigger. On the inside, he clapped his hands, wrestling himself to his best grin. Well then – showtime.

"Good evening, boys." He folded his hands prayer-like in front of his bare chest: "As you surely know, it is not without good reason that I am summoning you here so early, especially since we have nothing special planned today. Now, what could that be, huh? What have my little piggies done?"

The little piggies kept their noses nice and content themselves with staring at him with cow eyes. He had expected nothing else from them which hardly diminished his anger. He didn't like it when the audience didn't play along. As if lost in deep thought, he tapped his chin, knowing that they were now watching his every move with a mixture of impatience and the slow built-up of nervousness in the stomach. Then his face suddenly brightened, teeth flashing white. Some men in the front row flinched by default.

"I know; we'll ask Harley!" As if pulled by strings, his head jerked abruptedly to the left. "Harley, could you come here, please?"

20 pairs of eyes were striving murmuringly into the darkness the radius of the oval cut lampshade did not cover. Out of it stepped his girl with typical coquettish verve and step, her baseball bat balanced loosely on her shoulder. The heels of her rivet-trimmed boots clacked like pistol shots on the parquet. But the biggest sensation was caused by her make-up. Or rather, what was missing of it. Half of her face was as dazzled and decorated as ever; colourful and pale, the trimmings worthy of a clown princess. The other half, however, the half on which the stain was emblazoned like a brand, had remained naked and naïve. Joker would have bet a large sum of money that TwoFace would have lain at her feet in seconds – though his blood began to boil at the mere possibility.

With a naturalness no person right in their mind could have mustered, she stepped to his side and hooked up with him, giggling. Her eyes shone expectantly for what was to come. He had not told her any details. He preferred to let the surprise bloom fresh on her features.

"Wonderful," he breathed, clenched his fist and cleared his throat. He looked back into the round, pupils wider than before. "Do you notice anything different about her? Don't be shy – if you guess right, you win a prize!"

No one answered. First. The bruise struck anyone who wasn't completely blind. Finally, after Joker impatiently clicked his tongue, the lackey who still carried the mirror answered.

"She has a black eye?" he asked, uncertainly. Dead silence crept into the room. Joker turned to him with a beaming smile, Harley with him.

"Correct!"

He pulled out his revolver from an inside pocket of his coat, aimed and shot into the face of his own reflection. The bullet hit the man right in the eye. Like a wet sack he fell, spraying blood across the linoleum floor, accompanied by shards that trickled over his body as a sharp-edged blanket. A murmur went through the men. Those who stood close by stepped back a little so that their shoes would not get wet. "Your prize," Joker added cheerfully. The pistol smoked in his hand. "...as promised. Let no one say I’m not a man of my word!“ Harley laughed uproariously. Her bright, cheerful voice seemed so absent from the place and at the same time so fitting as if it had never been far away. Joker joined her laughter.

No one else laughed along. Not that he expected any comments or even applause. The silence spread across the hall like a shroud indicated that they were on their guard now. As said, it wasn't the first time he received them in such _mood_ ; but this was the first time Harley had been involved in the whole spectacle, a factor they were _not_ familiar with.

"So," Joker said, pointing the barrel of his gun at his men. "and now you’re gonna tell me who gave my little snookums a new paint job. You see, at heart, I’m a schoolgirl. I get quite _bitchy_ when someone messes with my property. Someone willing to enlighten me on this?"

No one was. At least no one answered his question. Some peered at the exit at the back of the hall, the closed gates through which two trucks could pass with ease and certainly half of the men gathered soon it was time to flee – that is, when they didn't trample each other in their panic.

For Joker, they were lemmings. With their bright, dark eyes, their hands passively tucked into their jackets, their caps pulled deep into their sweating foreheads, their teeth yellow from decay and tobacco. Interchangeable journeymen, not worth remembering their name, not _worth_ to clean the dirt under his fingernails.

And one of them had given himself permission to _touch_ Harley. This was a fact that kept on pounding down on Joker’s brain like a jackhammer. One of them had grasped a bottle with his dirty hand contaminated with oil, cigarette filter and gunpowder, and flung it at her cheek. Could have touched more than her cheek, deeper, more moist regions... Joker's grin took on manic proportions. The finger around the trigger cramped. Harley hung heavy and fragrant on his arm. This was her place. She had nowhere else to be.

"No volunteers this time? What a pity." He gave a histrionic sigh. "Well, in that case..." He shot at their feet. The front ones jumped up, the back ones aligned. It was funny, actually. No, it was like a fucking cartoon. „Guess I'll just have to shoot everyone in here!“ Joker shouted. Harley giggled.

"Yes, Puddin, make them dance!"

Her wish was his command. For once. The next body part that fell victim to him was a kneecap with the person attached to it howling like a dog. Before their neighbor could draw his own gun, Johnny put a bullet into his wrist. The splash of blood, screams of pain and the break of fine bones were everyday sounds in Joker's ears. Not that he didn't enjoy them still, but habit softened the sensation, dulled it. It was like washing paint with water. The sound remained, but the intensity of the old days was lost. Time did that all in one; it pulled you in, washed out your colors and then left you wet and grey on the side of the road. Joker had sent Harley into the acid bath for a reason. Instead of time, it had been him washing her clean – exposing her colors before it was too late.

He had always considered himself a shady kind of artist. And if he admitted it to himself, he would have to say that she was one of his best works. An act of endurance. An act... that described his life.

One of the men in the back got down on his knees, hands behind his head. He was shaking convulsively. Joker waved his hand, ordering his men aside with the mere movement of his wrist until they cleared a path. His shoes slowly, tactfully met the ground with Harley following him with staccato steps. The shorn skull looked vaguely familiar to him, as did the snake earring. This had no meaning, however. They all looked 'vaguely' familiar to him.

The man looked up with fright in his eyes when they approached him.

"It wasn't me, boss ! I didn't do it."

Joker shrugged.

"I'd love to believe that... Frank? But if it wasn't you then who could it have been?"

Frank (or whatever his name was) swallowed drily. He stared up at Harley who looked at him like an uplifting though pitiful insect. When her silence announced his downfall, his gaze lingered on her blue cheek. Doubts bloated his face, derailed it. Then it became hard.

His arm shot forward, straight as a die. A spread index finger stabbed into the crowd hitting a young man with a nose piercing. Hands stuck into the protruding pockets of his bomber jacket his face became chalk-white.

"Glenn did it! I saw him at the bar with Harley yesterday!“

"No, boss, Frank did it! He's just lying to save his neck!“ _Glenn_ yelled in panic. None of his comrades spoke out for or against either. Joker raised a brow.

“A shame if he didn't." He gave the rest of his minions a bare nod. "Get the hell out of here. Be back by midnight sharp. Anyone who’s late gets a load of buckshot in the ass. I _mean_ it.“

Although the threat was only meant half-heartedly however (for the simple reason that he had forgotten how many people were under his command at the moment) they didn't let him say it twice. It took seconds until gates were opened, bodies squeezed through and the hall showed empty except for the clown couple, Johnny, Glenn and Frank. Joker rolled his shoulders.

"Well... Here we are." He spread his arms amicably. "Frank says Glenn did it – Glenn says Frank did it. How do we solve this predicament, hm?“

Neither Glenn nor Frank dared to make a suggestion. Neither of them thought of escape either since Johnny operated his rifle faster than many a professional sniper. Although one of them was kneeling while the other stood they could have competed with stone sculptures just the same. Joker nodded as if he could hear some brilliant possibilities tumbling out of bitter mouths. Who knows, maybe he did. Heard voices and such. No one would have been quite surprised least he.

"Harley, that reminds me, I haven't given you my present yet!" He snapped his fingers. Johnny stepped forward and handed the clown prince a small package which he in turn carelessly threw into Harley’s hands. She was wide-eyed. Then, she practically beamed with joy.

"A gift? For me?! Oh, Mistah J! I thought-"

"Open it already," he said curtly, keeping his eyes fixed on the two men. A second later, he heard the rustle of paper and how it tore to shreds. He only leaned towards it when he heard the familiar little cry of joy that only he could elicit from her at that frequency.

The collar was custom-made, bone white leather and every single letter wrapped around it was pure gold. PUDDIN lay enthroned on her fingertips, feverish and smirking. And she could not get enough of it.

Still absorbed in her contemplation, he bent forward and touched her cheek with his lips, kissing the stain of violet streaks to taste the warm, pulsating skin. Wordlessly he put the pistol in, took the collar and put it on her. He liked the way the artificial light was reflected in the initials. Almost as if the halo had slipped down to her neck only to act like a noose instead, slowly tightening. Joker knew, involuntarily, that even then Harley would have had his name on his tongue. That her expression would reflect tenderness and understanding for him even unto death. That her first and last breaths were for him. For love... love.

With iron in his eyes he turned again to the men who were bathing in their own sweat.

“Look, we're not getting anywhere this way. You know me, I'm a friend of fair play. I would never believe one of my boys over another. Still, it would be a shame to leave the guilty party unpunished for a doubt. Punishment _must_ be. You understand that, don't you?"

He took the revolver, held it meaningfully in front of his chest before giving it over to Harley with an encouraging nod.

" After you, _mon ami_. Why don't you start with the kneecaps? They look so funny when they crawl." She frowned in confusion. The revolver was a dead weight in her hand. A whimpering sounded which at that moment neither assigned nor interested them.

"But Puddin, who is it now?" Like a child, she pushed her lower lip forward. He wanted to touch it, pull on it with his teeth until it was red and swollen, but later. Later. There was work to do.

He put a strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear, so timidly that he could have almost been accused of a twisted sort of sensibility. "Does it really matter?" he breathed.

Then he stepped aside with a slight bow, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He grinned as Frank wet himself with fear.


End file.
